Where is My Cheese Danish (aka Who is Howard Beakman) – Episode 3

Good day to you. I’m not sure we have been properly introduced? If you started at the beginning (https://siriouslysiri.com/2022/01/27/the-lessons-of-rescue-oh-my-part-1/) you probably caught my VA number (which was lucky 1000) – yup, I was the one thousandth cat to walk through the ‘doors’ of Siamese Rescue.  But who am I anyway , and how did I come by such a distinguished nom de plume?

Life was not always as good as it was at the Rescue Center. You see, most of us came across hard times in one way or another, ending up here through no fault of our own. In hindsight, though, those hard times were the catalyst that led us here, and from here we ventured on to new adventures, new experiences and new furever homes. Since we can’t get there without having been here, and there turned out to be pretty good, I find that as a whole, we have few, if any, regrets. Change is hard – and particularly hard for us sensitive Meezers, but with the right recipe of TLC and a sprinkling of luck, it can be a positive experience.

The time frame immediately prior to Rescue is a bit mucky. Hunger was the driving force, for having had my claws removed by a woman who placed a higher value on her JC Penney couch than on my fingers (no comparison if you ask me), I was left to fend for my supper with some pretty old K-9’s and a few back teeth. The menu becomes extremely limited when you rule out fresh catch and are left with day-old donuts. My pawickies were sore from the hot pavement – the June sun baked the tar to tap dancing level.  It hadn’t taken me long to figure I was going to be fending for myself when I saw all the suitcases and the hustle and bustle – particularly when my personal belongings were stacked in the corner. Because I’m an eldster, I don’t move as fast as I used to, and I suppose I slowed them down some, although my favorite Teen Bean never minded waiting for me to amble in for my morning visits. But ah, I digress.

Not being that spry has its good points, as does being older and wiser, and the swish of the early morning traffic stirred the smells emanating from the clock factory’s parking lot. I stopped to sniff the morning java, slightly acrid, mixed with the smoke, wrinkling my nose. A steady hum as the change in shifts passed each other to and from, and the rumbling in my gut convinced me to head towards the Bean stream. The stomp of boots muffled the rural Virginia accents and I nodded my head as I passed the factory men gathered for a morning smoke. Watching the gravel for a hint of crumbs, my eyes were drawn to a tin pail similar to what which Teen Bean took with her as she headed to the bus each morning. Figuring I had not much to lose, I ambled in that direction, studying the black leather bootstrings which rose towards the trees. The pail lay open at chest height and I caught the words “Suzy Q” on the edge of a clear, torn wrapper. My luck was holding out as I inched my beak towards what looked to be a delicious morning snack. The stream of rustic chatter continued uninterrupted. Not in a situation to be choosy, I sunk my mouth into a gooey but delightfully creamy substance, something akin to a vanilla custard I had once been offered on a Christmas Eve. Moving my mouth further forward,  I found the edges to be of a soft but crumbly texture, not nearly as enjoyable as the first bite but certainly palatable. Suzy Q was obviously not bad in the kitchen.

Seize the moment, my Meowther used to say, and with that thought I made a somewhat feeble attempt to drag the remainder of Suzy’s breakfast production out of the tin pail to easier access.

“Hey!” The boot shifted as a gnarly old finger entered the tin pail’s arena. “Where’s my cheese Danish?” Time to get a move on, I reluctantly withdrew my mouth from the cellophane package and turned to leave.  “Not so fast” boomed the boot. “You can’t just take someone’s breakfast without exchanging a word or two.” More gnarly fingers closed around my midriff. The ground faded away as I was hoisted into the air. Two chubby cheeks framed the curliest orange hair I had ever seen, topped by two piercing eyes. At least they’re blue, I thought quickly, wondering if a struggle would be worth it. “Why there ain’t nothing to you – you’se just a sack a bones,” Boots said. “No wonder you’re a beggin. Ya best not hang around here, my fellow, for them there neighborhood dogs ain’t going to take kindly to you, and heck, you’d not be more than an appetizer for one of them!” My stomach lurched as I swung trapeze-like through the air; Boots gathering up his tin pail in one hand, me in the other. I looked fondly at the remnants of the cheese Danish in the hopes that Boots would invite Suzy Q to join us, but his shift was done and we were headed out.  I swallowed tightly, hoping the swinging back and forth would not result in the loss of Suzy’s carefully baked breakfast. Boots was whistling under his breath as he headed for the opened door of a faded blue cab. Plopped on the seat, I shifted my interest as a wide variety of cellophane packets in various stages of consumption came into view. Before I had a chance to jump down and investigate further, however, Boots had parked himself next to me and a horrible rumbling and crackling noise emanated from under the hood. Without claws and much anchoring it was all I could do to hold on, and I stumbled and staggered from side to side, occasionally bumping up against Boots as I tried to stay on my paws. Luckily this experience was short lived, and just as I began to think maybe hot pavement wasn’t so bad, we came to a lurching halt and the hood sputtered and died. “End of the road” mumbled Boots as the trapeze action began again and I swung helplessly back and forth. A clang and a clink and I was deposited on a cold steel desk where a female Bean with a face stressed beyond her years peered down at me. Boots and the Bean exchanged a few words as Boots scribbled some information on a form he was handed, gave me a quick scritch, and headed out the door.

The smells were overwhelming – many purrsonalities carried through the air. Lonely and mourning, confused, frightened, and plain old angry. More clinks, more trapeze action, and then my very own room. A bit small, 3×3, but it had the bare necessities – a soft towel, a cardboard box to do my business in, a dish of water, a bowl of kibbles. I wondered if by any chance Suzy Q sent her baked goods here. Something told me probably not.

Fortunately, those tiny quarters were only temporary. My handsome beak and warbling tenor secured me a quick audience with the CPS of Siamese Rescue. A few days and a number of miles later my accommodations were upgraded – first, to business class at the Center, and then to first class in the home. And that CPS lady? Not only was she the Chief Pooper Scooper, but she could make a mean cheese Danish. Life was good.

Yours truly,

Howard Beakman

(If you like my tails, and are curious as to how I got my Nom de Plume (which is some story, let me tell you), follow this blog to be notified when I next put paw to paper).